retiredmartin

 

As I’ve said many times, Wales mixes up the basic boozer with outside loos, peeling paint and entitled Arsenal fans (OK, only one of those) with the farmhouse style posh gastropub for pashminas from Prestbury.

Most English visitors to Brecon in Summer have never been to a Proper Pub where you’re not shown to your seat, and would be terrified by the Dyfi Forester.

They’re looking for “nice” places like the Griffin in Felinfach (or possibly Felin Fach).

The normal pretence for the Times and Guardian reading family is that you arrive at your lunch stop (booked, of course), having done a modest walk around the beautiful Welsh countryside, arriving discussing your 20 minute amble as if you’d just climbed Snowdon the hard way.

Reader, I didn’t pass a soul on my 2 mile stroll.

Stunning views, spirits lifted, calf muscles stretched.

Time for chintz in the Griffin.

In Fenland market towns the locals clamour for their own Spoons so they can have pizza and a pint for £6.  But the Home Counties just want Brunning & Price, or this Welsh approximation.

Everyone was standing around waiting for their designated slot; Colonel Mustard types and the inevitable Cheltenham family with impatient toddlers.

Oh look, that GBBF award winning Grey Trees with the quaint slate pump clip.

I looked jealously at the wonders denied me as a GBG ticker.

I kid you not; this “waiting area” was the most pubby place to take my half.

Oh dear.  So out in the garden it went, where it enjoyed some stellar views.

Not enough for the sun to improve it beyond a tepid 2, but at least there were plenty of plant pots.